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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796135">Rebuilding</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincyclopedia/pseuds/lincyclopedia'>lincyclopedia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Post-Canon, Present Tense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:00:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincyclopedia/pseuds/lincyclopedia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Baz have returned from America, solved the problem at Watford, and retreated to the Grimm family estate in Oxford. Simon is barely speaking again and Baz just wants him to be okay. Kind of angsty but ends with some hope.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rebuilding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/emerald_moons/gifts">emerald_moons</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We got lucky with the mess at Watford, really. Mitali had the thing half-controlled by the time we arrived, and what with Simon’s sword skills, Penelope’s magic, and my superstrength, we managed all right once we finally got there. That’s not to say we came out unscathed—I don’t think anyone can face down a pack of goblins and come out unscathed—but we did okay. </p>
<p>That was two weeks ago, and we’ve taken it easy in those two weeks. Penelope went back to Hounslow to stay with her family, and my father—to my endless surprise—invited Simon and me to come back to Oxford and rest. He’s even been letting us stay in the same room. Simon’s been alternately clinging to me and avoiding me, and in both cases he’s barely been speaking. </p>
<p>It reminds me of the days after we killed the Mage. I think I was more worried then—frantic, almost—because I hadn’t seen him so despondent before, but I was more hopeful, too, that if I just got him back to talking then everything would be all right. I’m not frantic this time, but I’m not hopeful, either. I’m pretty sure I’m feeling something like despair, or maybe resignation. Simon, in his bright, brash majesty that I knew and loved and hated at school, is no more. I don’t think I can resurrect him. The only thing I think I stand even a chance of doing is rebuilding him into something else. There was a time when I thought my love was strong enough to do that, but now I’m far from certain. </p>
<p>I get a text from Penelope after two weeks, saying that she’s heading back to her and Simon’s flat and asking whether Simon and I would like to join her. I don’t question why she didn’t text Simon. We all know I’m the one who communicates, of the two of us. I’m at breakfast when I get the text, so I finish eating and return to the bedroom to see if I can coax an opinion out of Simon, who’s still in bed. </p>
<p>When I get to my room, Simon’s curled up on the edge of the bed, facing the wall. I kneel next to his head, aching to brush his (greasy, unwashed) curls off his forehead but not knowing if I’m allowed to touch him. His feelings on that vary by the day. “Simon,” I say quietly, as gently as I know how, “Bunce is heading back to the flat today, and she’s asked if we’d like to join her. What do you think?”</p>
<p>Simon blinks at me a few times and then rubs his eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “That’d be good.” </p>
<p>“Yeah?” I ask, surprised that he had an opinion that quickly. </p>
<p>“Oh, do you not want—sorry, you probably want to stay with your family—we don’t have to—” </p>
<p>That’s more words than I’ve heard out of him at once in quite a while, and I’d be happy about it if his immediate impulse to be self-sacrificing weren’t breaking my heart. “Simon, love, no,” I interrupt. “I want to be where you want to be. If you want to go to London, let’s go to London. I can pack while you get dressed.” </p>
<p>Simon grunts and rolls onto his back, and I stand so I can see his face again. I realise that I’m looming, but I don’t have a better idea. “What’s wrong?” I ask. </p>
<p>“When are you going to realise that I’m dead weight?” he demands, suddenly loud. “You’re going to pack for both of us, and then you’re going to drive us to London, and you’re probably going to buy me lunch, and what am I contributing? Literally bloody nothing.” </p>
<p>I wish this weren’t what he’d been saving up his words for. “You’re not dead weight. You’ve just experienced an immense amount of trauma, and it’s taking you a while to get back to baseline. Let me pick up the slack for a bit, okay?” </p>
<p>“Why do you think I’m ever going to get back to baseline? Since when do I even <em>have</em> a baseline? What part of my life was supposed to be normal? The care homes? Getting attacked by monsters all the bloody time at Watford? The months after I killed the closest thing I ever had to a father? Our shitshow of a road trip?” </p>
<p>I sigh. He’s right; he doesn’t have a baseline to get back to. I want to take his hand or something, for both of our sakes, but I restrain myself and say, “I’m sorry. You’re right. But I do believe things can get better for you, and I don’t mind helping you with the little things until you’re prepared to do them on your own.” </p>
<p>“<em>Why</em>?” he demands. “Why don’t you go find someone who can deserve you?” </p>
<p>That knocks the wind out of me. When I can breathe again, I murmur, “I’m sorry, Simon. I know you deserve better, but I promise I’m trying to be as good as I can to you. Please tell me what I should do differently; I want to know and I swear I’m not failing you on purpose—” </p>
<p>“Baz, what?” he asks, cutting me off. “<em>No</em>. I don’t deserve better—what do you even mean, ‘better’? You’re not failing me; <em>you</em> deserve more than <em>I</em> can give you. And I want you to go find it.” </p>
<p>For the second time in a row, he steals my breath. “Simon, are you—are you breaking up with me?” </p>
<p>His eyes leave my face. “Please let me do this, Baz.” </p>
<p>“Simon, if you want something else for yourself, then by all means, leave me behind and go find it. But if you want something else for <em>me</em>, because you think you aren’t good enough, then please, please let me stay. I don’t want anyone but you, and of course that only matters if you want me too, but if you do, then please, <em>please</em> keep me around.” To my horror, a tear makes its way down my cheek. I’m an embarrassment to the name of Pitch, but all I care about right now is that Simon is making my world crumble. </p>
<p>“Why do you think I can make you happy when I’m never happy myself?” Simon half-shouts. </p>
<p>“I don’t care if I’m happy! I care if you’re okay!” I’m matching his volume now, though my voice is cracking from the tears. </p>
<p>“Well <em>I</em> care if you’re happy!” </p>
<p>“Then please let me stay,” I beg. “Please, Simon—yes, it makes me sad to see you so unhappy, but I promise I’d be even sadder if you left me.” I’m openly crying now. “Please, please . . .”</p>
<p>“Baz,” he says, finally not shouting. “I’m drowning, and I don’t want to take you down with me.” </p>
<p>“I want to pull you to the surface,” I tell him. </p>
<p>“I don’t think it works like that,” he says. “I think I’m just going to drown.” </p>
<p>“I’m not giving up yet,” I promise. “Please don’t give up either.” A sob escapes me. </p>
<p>Simon leverages himself up on his elbows and gets into a sitting position, and then he reaches for my hand and pulls me down into his lap. I go slowly, wonderingly, barely daring to believe the evidence of my senses—is Simon really holding me, really wrapping an arm around me and using the other hand to dry my tears, really murmuring that he’ll stay with me and let me stay with him? I can’t help crying harder, and he holds me tighter in response. </p>
<p>It’s several minutes before I’ve cried myself out, but finally I’m only sniffling. “I’m sorry,” I say as soon as I trust my voice. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you and here I am—”</p>
<p>“Baz, no,” says Simon. “It goes both ways. You’ve been through so much, too, and if I’m going to be your boyfriend then I’d bloody well better hold you when you need to be held.” He loosens the arm that’s around me and looks down. “I mean, if you want. Sorry, you probably don’t—” </p>
<p>“Simon,” I say as firmly as I can. “That was the best thing you could possibly have done. Thank you. I absolutely wanted it. Want it.” </p>
<p>“Oh,” says Simon, his arm tightening around me again. </p>
<p>“Can I touch you?” I ask. </p>
<p>“Baz. I’m <em>holding</em> you.” </p>
<p>“That’s not permission,” I reply. </p>
<p>“I first kissed you without any warning, and we weren’t even together then,” Simon points out. </p>
<p>“There were . . . extenuating circumstances.” </p>
<p>“Still.” </p>
<p>“Can I touch you?” I ask again. </p>
<p>“Do you want to?” Simon asks, not quite meeting my eyes. </p>
<p>“Always.” </p>
<p>“Then yes, Baz, please,” says Simon, so I run my fingers down his face, smooth my palms across his shoulders, trail my hands down his arms. He’s wearing a T-shirt, and I can see the goosebumps I’m raising on his skin. </p>
<p>“Oh,” I say. “Are my hands too cold?”</p>
<p>“No,” he replies. </p>
<p>Wait. Does that mean the goosebumps are for a different reason? I try to banish the thought; no need to make this awkward. “Can I kiss you?” I ask instead. </p>
<p>“Cheek or forehead,” he says, looking at his lap. </p>
<p>So I kiss his forehead and then his cheek and then draw back, settling against his arm again. “Do you want to have breakfast?” I ask. “I really can pack for both of us; it’s no trouble.” </p>
<p>“Are you sure?” </p>
<p>“Definitely,” I tell him. </p>
<p>“Okay,” he says. “Thank you. Let’s get up.” </p>
<p>I stand and begin making my way around the room, picking up things that I know belong to Simon. Simon stands, too, stretching, and then he ambles out of the room. Packing for myself doesn’t take long; I’ve been neat with my things, so they’re mostly still in my suitcase. Simon, on the other hand, has spread his stuff throughout my room and the nearest bathroom. I use a few finding spells in case he’s left things elsewhere in the house, but it seems like he hasn’t, which makes a certain amount of sense. After all, he’s barely left my room these two weeks. </p>
<p>Simon asks if I mind waiting for him to shower, and I assure him that I don’t. I wish I could drawl something about how I’d rather wait for him to shower than spend the whole drive to London smelling him, but I think he’d take me literally and start apologizing for not showering much lately. It’s throwing me off balance, this need to be both gentle and honest with him, rather than poking at him, even though it’s been this way for a year and a half now. Part of me misses the ability to be sarcastic with him, but I was watching what I said to him then, too, trying not to let on that I was in love with him. </p>
<p>I tell my father we’re leaving, and he claps me on the shoulder and looks at me silently. I wind up hugging Daphne and the kids goodbye. The kids have been a bright spot in these past two weeks, honestly. I’ve felt the need to spend a lot of my time in the same room as Simon, just to make sure he knows I care and to reassure myself that he was physically safe, whatever else might be happening, but even so I’ve also spent quite a bit of time playing with the kids. Mordelia is old enough to play chess now, even though I have to really make an effort to lose to her. The twins and my little brother just want endless piggyback rides, but that’s okay, too. It’s nice to hear them laugh. </p>
<p>Daphne hugs Simon, too, as we’re leaving, and then we’re out the door and in the Jag. It’s a quiet ride to London, but I don’t mind, especially because Simon asks me to come up to the flat with him when we arrive. We don’t snog—haven’t in what feels like ages—but he lets me hold him, and it’s more than enough.</p>
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